


Finding Penance Beyond the Waking World

by Xerphena



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, F/F, F/M, I will Add more tags as i write more, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:56:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29931705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerphena/pseuds/Xerphena
Summary: “I’m more frustrated than scared now, most of the time. I am worried that, maybe, I’ve broken something,” Claudette whispers. Meg runs her hand through Claudette’s hair, careful to not get caught on the tight curls. She places a gentle kiss on Claudette’s head. “I’m worried that maybe it’s what it wants. Us to become used to this. Us to lose our souls.”“I don’t think we’ve lost our souls, Claud,” Meg answers, tightening her arms.“Yeah?”Meg nods and kisses between Claudettes eyes. “Yeah. I don’t think fear is the only thing that comprises the human soul.” Claudette smiles in response and brings her legs a little closer to Meg as a thrill of happiness spreads through her veins.A follower of the Entity begins to feel the niggling guilt and decides to do something about it.This story is an exploration of various characters and their guilt with a frame of the actions of the mystery Magus. Each chapter, after the first, will be a deep dive into one set of characters.
Relationships: Claudette Morel/Meg Thomas, Dwight Fairfield/David King
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Finding Penance Beyond the Waking World

The Magus places her hands on the sigil and traces a languid pattern along the groves of the oft drawn magic. Her peers settle around the circle created by swirling patterns of lingering magic. Their dark robes cast darker shadows on grim faces which curl into sneers of frenzied excitement. The Magus feels that disgust which bookended her existent unfurl in her gut and begins to grow with barbed vines along her veins.

The High mage steps forward with an uneven gait. The Magus can see him weakening. The way his steps falter on the uneven stonework of their citadel, and the smaller stride he takes when moving to the front of his procession. He raises shaking hands in front of him. The Magus smirks to herself for she knows that he was meant to raise his hands above his head. 

The following service goes as it always does. They chant in rhythmic voices to connect with the One Who Craves, and when the shifting tide of let blood gurgles from the centre, she leans forward to drink deep of the sublime fear and lust for carnage. She watched with a nigh on empty gaze at brutal acts like a horrid voyeur.

Then, she returns home as she always does to a husband who knows not her true purpose. She steps into the kitchen while turning on the baby monitor. The Magus’ child is silent like the dead. She sets the kettle on the stove and scoops two tablespoons of instant coffee grounds into a chipped and faded mug. She pours the boiling water from the screaming kettle, and the little spoon dings off the sides. The Magus hears her husband startle from his slumber on the living room couch.

He stumbles into the kitchen and kisses the back of her neck. She does not invite the action but does nothing to stop it. He mumbles something about going to bed. She lifts the mug off too-hot coffee to her lips and drinks deep, feeling the grounds wash away the taste of copper lingering between her teeth. The mixed flavour sits heavy on her tongue. A film she could wipe away. 

She wonders when the action of her peers became so mundane. That the once mind-numbing banality of tedious normalcy became what she craved. She looked at the remnants of coffee grinds at the bottom of the mug. She wondered how she became sick of the saccharine blood; a taste she once craved so deeply that she would lay awake at night and lick her teeth, imagining that she could savour even just a droplet. She wondered when the guilt started.

The Magus was no stranger to the gut wrenching guilt. Her father was a Calvinist who reminded her of his doctrine as often as her mother would allow. Her mother was a Catholic who told her not to enjoy pleasures for others did not have them. Her father was an alcoholic who seemed to know he was not of the elite and as such allowed himself to indulge in hypocritical bliss. Her mother had fibromyalgia and took her pain and rage at fraying veins out on The Magus. Pregnancy had done it to her, she’d say. The Magus had done it to her.

The Magus did not sleep that night. She sat with her empty mug on the back porch, tracing the rim with her finger. Around and around as the hours passed. She wondered, idly, as the morning sun rose what she could do to cleanse herself of the guilt. She watched with tired eyes as a magpie landed on the willow tree and observed her with empty eyes of night. She got an idea. 

Claudette and Meg get along well in the nightmare. “Weird kids.” That’s how Meg said it. They were the weird kids. Both filled with boundless energy as children all boiled down. 

Claudette remembered walking. Her day had been difficult. Her girlfriend, a lovely archeologist she met at a conference on ancient flora, had said something. Claudette could barely remember the fight, if it even was one. That was something Claudette struggled with. She would talk with someone and be sure, certain even, that they had been angry with her, then later she would find out that they had barely remembered the discussion. She had left, her guts an anxious ball, for a walk. There was this nature path just outside of town where her father had taken her when things were a little too much. She could talk to him about all of her interests, and he would listen with a comforting smile etched across his face. The night was warm, and a thick fog covered the ground. She figured she would see her way through it. She still hopes she will find her way through it. 

Meg had been there when she arrived. Claudette remembers that the early days of their interactions were blushed with a light guilt. If her girlfriend could see her, she would be so upset. Amelie had always been the self conscious type. A childhood of reading Plato instead of making friends and other girls pretending to like her as a joke, Claudette guesses. She always supposes that she and Meg never really did anything that qualifies as cheating, but as they held hands, staring up at the unchanging sky, Claudette feels as though she was betraying Amelie. 

They walk together, between trials, along a path away from the campfire. “So, David said that the Trapper just wandered. Like, he just walked around. Suppose he’d never been there. Like he hit Feng once I think, but she’d gone right up to him.” Meg chuckles. 

Claudette giggles, “where were you all?” 

“That lab. The one Steve recognizes,” Meg answers. “The killer just could not find his way around. Like, no idea where to place his traps. Nothing.” 

Claudette laughs, a full mouthed grin which showed her teeth. Meg bumps into Claudette with her shoulder. Then, with a grin of her own, Meg points forward. “There. Jake told me about this place.” 

They walk into a clearing with a willow tree in the middle. The branches grey hang down close to the ground like a canopy of foliage. A couple of crows chatter high above in the branches, and Claudette feels an anxious sweat form in between her shoulder blades. Meg steps forward and whisks aside the branches. A little nest of comfort is escounced inside made of scavenged materials. Some sheets, once white, are laid upon the ground with a few pillows Claudette presumes were stolen from Mount Ormound. She sees a couple of wood carvings, probably made by Jake. Most are not anything recognizable, but a competent bird lays half finished on the sheets. 

Meg sits down on the sheets and patted the spot beside her. Claudette joins her and they lie back. Claudette rested her head on Meg’s chest while she rubbed Claudette’s arm. They were silent for a long time, listening only to each other breathe. Claudette focused on the way Meg’s chest rose rhythmically, and how her thumb rubs in time. 

Claudette breaks the silence. “Do you ever worry? About us, I mean.” 

Meg’s breath stiffens. “Us?” 

“All of us. Us survivors. Are you ever scared that maybe we are losing something? Some part of ourselves?” Claudette moves her arm across Meg’s stomach. 

“Yeah, sometimes,” Meg answers, relieved and also disappointed. 

“I’m more frustrated than scared now, most of the time. I am worried that, maybe, I’ve broken something,” Claudette whispers. Meg runs her hand through Claudette’s hair, careful to not get caught on the tight curls. She places a gentle kiss on Claudette’s head. “I’m worried that maybe it’s what  _ it  _ wants. Us to become used to this. Us to lose our souls.” 

“I don’t think we’ve lost our souls, Claud,” Meg answers, tightening her arms. 

“Yeah?” 

Meg nods and kisses between Claudettes eyes. “Yeah. I don’t think fear is the only thing that comprises the human soul.” Claudette smiles in response and brings her legs a little closer to Meg as a thrill of happiness spreads through her veins. 

They are both summoned to a trial while walking back from the Willow tree. Both of them make it out of the trial, listening to the hacking cough of the Clown as they run through the gate. The flickering of the fire is a warm sight to them as they approach. Meg hears Ace laughing as he tells a far-fetched story. She hears the low grumblings of Bill as he interjects, likely egging on Ace by doubting his tall tale. 

“Hey guys,” Dwight mumbles, pulling on his tie. “Did you make it okay?” 

Meg nods, “Yeah. I ran the Clown around for a while. We lost Kate and Tapp though, right at the end.” 

They sit together around the fire and bask in the feeling of camaraderie created just by being there. She listens as the voices of the others mingle into background noise. She allows herself a moment to think, to let the runner’s high whisk off her skin. She did not voice such to Claudette, but her fears are a little too close to her own. She had always found it difficult to voice how she felt to others; she just decided, almost subconsciously, at a young age that her problems were her own, and that she would never burden others. The rowdiness of her youth should have really been a wake up call for her elders, but no one ever thought anything of it. 

Meg looks forward and sees a magpie flutter down onto a branch. She tilted her head. She only thought crows existed in the nightmare. 

“There is a church retreat this weekend. Are you fine if I go?” The Magus asks her husband. She refuses to look at him when she lies; his open and trusting eyes unnerving her. 

“Of course, love. I know how the church comforts you. Just the weekend, then ?” he asks, continuing to open a pomegranate. 

“Yes.” She stirs up some almond milk and chia. “Should be back no later than Tuesday morning.” She watches as he drops the red seeds into the pudding, and they disappear beneath the milk and seeds. 

The next morning, she takes her small sudan and drives to her hometown. A pathetic thing, crumbling under poor Ontario management. She stops in front of the Catholic Church her mother used to take her to. The inside was the same as she remembered. It smelled of wood and candle wax. The deep red carpet is soft beneath her feet. She looks into the windows and gazes at the glass visage of saints with faces curled in pain. 

“A demon cannot enter the church for he will burn in the house of God,” her mother told her in hushed tones while they waited in line for the Eucharist. “You are always safe here.” The Magus knows her mother is wrong. 

She settles into the Confessional booth. Her breath wavers as the panel between them opens. She follows the confessional rite with the priest on instinct. Some of the words had changed since she was a child, but the essence—what she needs—is just the same. 

“Forgive me father for I have sinned.” She had. “A great many times in a great many ways.” She feels her voice waver. “I have taken pleasure in the suffering of my brothers and sisters.” She grew strong on their blood. 

He instructed her, as she knew he would, to pray the rosary. Then, “And seek penance with those you have harmed. Look to right your wrongs.” 

The Magus gazes at her hands which tremble on the beads of the rosary she’d been given when she was confirmed. The Magus takes a steadying breath. 

She stops at a cafe in town. A little thing still run by the same woman who did so when The Magus was a child. She orders a cup of coffee and sits at the table, and with unsteady hands she searches up the route to the town of Weeks. 

Dwight is summoned to a trial. He moves quickly to a generator and begins to make repairs, listening with deft ears for the sound of his own heart. The machine chugs and sputters as he fixes the destroyed internal mechanism. He finds the work relaxing, on some level, not to say he is calm, but it is familiar. He can not tell you how long he has been in the nightmare, but he knows he is there longer than he ever wishes he would be. 

David joins him by the generator and helps finish up the repair. The flood lights above spark to life and bathe them in a worrying glow. They jog to a nearby wall and crouch behind it. They watch as one of the teenagers with the handmade masks run up to the generator. They scanned the area and eventually run off, apparently hearing something of interest. David pointed towards the asylum in the centre of the trial. “Nea was trying a repair up there when the fucker came running. Saw you working down here, and well, I just couldn’t leave you down ‘ere all alone.” 

Dwight laughs with his shoulders. “Looks like he left—.” 

“She. It was the one with the crossed out mouth. Jeff said she dated the main one,” David says. “When we were well, ya know.” 

“Right. Well, it looks like she left. We can probably finish the gen before she gets back,” Dwight answers. He finds David caring about even the killer's pronouns touching. Didn’t stop him from calling them all sorts of insults under the sun, or static moon in the case of the nightmare. 

They run up to the generator and find it sparking with signs of recent tampering. They both get to work and hear a yell from somewhere else. Dwight steps away from the generator and looks out a gap in the wall; he sees Nea with her hand wrapped around her midsection, vaulting a window. She glances up at Dwight, seemingly noticing him and waving her hand at him. He takes the hint and returns to the generator. 

As they complete their task, they hear Nea fall down and then, a few seconds later, hear her rattling cry as the killer tossed her up on the hook. Dwight turns to David. “I’m going to go after Nea. Do you know who else is here?” 

David nods. “Quentin. I’ll try and find ‘im. Think he’s somewhere over there.” He points towards the other side of the map. 

Nea groans in pain as Dwight pulls her down from the hook. He hastily heals here, wrapping gauze around her shoulder. 

Nea cleared her throat. “Felt it again when he—.” 

“She.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me, Dwight?” She looks at him with a hint of humour in her gaze. When  _ she _ hooked me. Like I was being watched,” Nea stands. “Different from the Entity. There is something else here.” She gestures to a magpie resting atop the hook. “They don’t cry out to the Entity.” 

The Magus pulls the robe over her head and walks, with confidence, into a place she knows only through the eyes of others. She looks at the ruins of the MacMillian Estate. Then, at the ground, she sees signs of frequent foot traffic. People, ghost hunters and other adventures, must walk through here looking for signs of the missing people. The One Who Craves only takes those it knows has fear lingering in their hearts. Those who have pain to feel and hope to lose. She travels to the mines—condemned and crumbling—and she enters. She looked at the skeleton of the mine, rotting and bloated with sickly water. 

The Magus senses her way through and walks, with determination, to the place where  _ it  _ all began. The place where Evan MacMillian was dragged into the nightmare and forced to feed the Craving One. A Craving One spurred on by those who want to see it feed. A Craving One who, even now, grants power to The Magus. A Craving One who will never be sated, but can be destroyed. A Craving One who The Magus hopes is not listening. 

She speaks in low tones as she waves her hands in patterns summoning her strength. She feels herself drifting, falling into a slumber which, she hopes, will give way to a nightmare. She hears it then, at the corner of her mind, inviting her into the nightmare. Offering her a place amongst rank of the bloodthirsty, where she could feed until she was sated. 

She awakens in the nightmare, lucid and determined. She can hear, distant like sunlight on closed eyelids, The One Who Craves demanding her return, but she refuses. With steps burdened by the weight of sleep, she stands and walks towards the library. She can feel a voice within herself speak out, and it is calling her to penential journey. She listens and continues, knowing her work to be right and just.


End file.
